Accessories
by IShouldBeOverThis
Summary: Light BDSM, sensation play  no cutting .  Series now complete
1. Tie

There were a few puzzled glances the first time Sherlock wore a tie to a crime scene since everyone was so used to his fitted shirts worn artfully unbuttoned, but since the tie was still loose, the top button of the shirt still unbuttoned, the change in dress was simply put down to some new eccentricity. It was a strange tie with a silver clasp over the knot and it couldn't be argued (for those who admitted to noticing such things), that the black against the white of the shirt and the pale of his skin with the reflecting silver was very striking.

And if John occasionally said, "Sherlock, your tie is a askew," and reached up to straighten it, to slide the silver clasp up until the metal touched Sherlock's long, white throat, well, that could be attributed to their strange relationship.

But it would have taken someone who was really watching, observing as carefully as a Holmes themselves, to notice that John only said it when Sherlock was being particularly unruly, lashing out with insults and derision, or vibrating with frustration at a particularly difficult crime. And only if one had made a study of Sherlock would one notice that when the metal pressed against his skin his eyes lowered, a certain defiant tension went out of his back leaving it more… What exactly? Not relaxed precisely, but more docile certainly. Then he would be easier to deal with, would wrap up his observations quickly and depart with only the slightest flourish of self-congratulation.

After the fourth or fifth such incident, John stopped straightening the tie and only needed to say the words, "Sherlock, your tie is askew," for Sherlock to respond. One would have had to have been standing right next to Sherlock, almost pressed against him, to notice that his breathing became shallow, his hands clenched and unclenched and a slight flush rose on his neck at the words.

John had given the tie to Sherlock as a present, earning a raised eyebrow for his trouble until he slipped it over Sherlock's head, drew the clasp tight and whispered, "On your knees, now."

Neither was sure who had suggested that Sherlock wear it out, specifically when called by the Yard. Who had decided that they needed a constant reminder of Sherlock on his knees naked but for the tie, the ends wrapped tightly around John's fist? But whoever it was, the end result was that when John tightened it at crime scenes both began running through scenarios in their heads until the need to return to Baker Street became urgent.

First, when the door of 221b was shut (and locked) behind them, Sherlock would strip while John held the leash, giving just enough slack for Sherlock to maneuver. But then…

Would John slide the clasp around to the back of Sherlock's throat? Push him onto his knees and fuck him roughly while tugging his head back, the band of the tie almost cutting off his air?

Would he push Sherlock onto his back? Spread his legs and take him while pushing the tie ends into Sherlock's mouth to make him gag on his cries?

Or, would he be more imaginative? Would he tie Sherlock's hands behind his back, artfully rigging the knot so that Sherlock's struggles would only tighten it, then make Sherlock watch as he masturbated? At last John would whisper, "Alright, 'Lock," release Sherlock's hands and let him stroke himself as John finished in his mouth.

If Sherlock had been particularly incorrigible, John would tie him somewhere, to the bedposts or the kitchen table, bind him in a cock ring and leave him there, struggling, aroused, cursing and angry, until he broke down, begging for John's touch, for John's forgiveness. Then John would come to him, untie him, take him to bed, whisper how much he was loved, how beautiful he was, how brilliant and amazing.


	2. Necklace

John rises before Sherlock and in the diffused light from the window, gets dressed. Half-awake and lethargic from their sex, Sherlock is only vaguely aware that John has slipped something over his head before buttoning his shirt. But that little piece of observation tugs at his mind throughout the day. Could it have been John's dog tags? John is not the kind of man to indulge in jewelry.

He wants to ask, but he senses that this is part of the game. That to ask would break some rule John has set for him. He's become used to these challenges, this demonstration of the power that John can wield over him when the need arises.

That night John changes into his nightclothes in the loo and the necklace is gone when he returns to their bed.

Sherlock searches-he's allowed to search—after John goes to work, but he can't find it and he suspects that John is wearing it every day and removing it before he gets home.

Sherlock's growing restless. He snaps at John and sulks. He sleeps in his own room when John storms off to bed in a huff. Like a low pressure front pushing a storm ahead of it, something must break.

Fortunately it's a case that snaps the tension. Wired from a crime that's too easy, and John's puzzle that eludes him, Sherlock insults everyone repeatedly. John watches from the edge.

Perhaps in retaliation for Sherlock's attitude, they are dragged into Scotland Yard for statements. They sit on the plastic chairs designed to put everyone at unease and wait. Sherlock is fuming and fidgety.

"Time, I think," John says and undoes the top button of his shirt to pull out the chain with a pendant. It looks like some sort of shark's tooth, angrily curved, but black on one side and glass on the other.* He slips it over his head and at last Sherlock can see what it is and what it does.

John flips open the blade and draws the glass tip up Sherlock's forearm hard enough to leave a white line in its wake that quickly turns red. He draws two more lines, refolds the knife and returns the chain to his neck without a word.

Sherlock answers the DI's questions docilely and quickly. In the cab John says nothing.

Inside the flat John sits in his chair and flicks on the telly.

Sherlock goes to their room, strips and places the tie around his neck. He returns to the sitting room and kneels in front of John's chair.

"John," he says softly, inquiringly.

John finally turns and looks at him, showing no surprise at Sherlock's appearance, but Sherlock notices through downcast lashes that John has unbuttoned his shirt again to expose the chain.

"John," he repeats.

"What?" John asks in a bored tone of voice, exactly the tone of voice that Sherlock uses when the situation's different, but he's not bored now.

"John, will you touch me with the blade again?"

John is silent.

"Please."

"Why?"

Sherlock pauses, trying to find the right answer, "Because I need you to."

John seems to consider, but he's fingering the chain as he thinks. "Go to the bedroom and wait for me."

Sherlock tries not to rush, not to show his eagerness, his need, even though he knows his growing erection is obvious. He rises and walks to the bedroom.

John makes him wait for ten minutes before he comes in. The blade is open, held between John's forefinger and thumb, chain wrapped around his fist.

Sherlock is sitting, leaning against the headboard. He hasn't dared to touch himself. They've never discussed what would happen if Sherlock disobeyed. He never has, but they've never discussed the use of pain either, but now John has introduced it. After the first time, the first night, they've barely discussed this side of their relationship at all. It's like an unspoken parental threat, "I'm going to count to three…" Like a child, Sherlock is afraid to find out what John will do. It is probable that all John will do is stop. In this state Sherlock thinks that he would find that unbearable, that he would helplessly beg and plead. Part of him wants to disobey, to be as defiant as he is in what he thinks of as the real world, separate from this space. He is stirred by the idea of what John might do, what he might want to do. Part of him wants to reach the point of begging and pleading. But the part that is winning now only wants to please John.

John sits on the edge of the bed at Sherlock's side. At first all that he does is run the rounded wooden curve along Sherlock's skin, feather light. He starts along the sternum, trails over the bottom of Sherlock's rib cage with soothing strokes, over Sherlock's sharp hipbones, the outsides of the thighs, the tops of the calves and the rise of the navicular bones in both feet. He opens the blade and reaches up to loosen the tie so that he can smooth it along Sherlock's throat. A little more pressure now, beneath the jaw, out to the chin, always moving in one direction. The blade catches slightly in the hollows of Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock shuts his eyes to focus on the sensation. This is what he craves, everything reduced to John's focus on him, his body; all of his focus on the sensation and John's attention.

Abruptly John stops, removes the blade and Sherlock only just bites back his whimper. John slides the metal clasp up until it rests against the thyroid cartilage on the edge of unpleasant.

"Easy," John murmurs. "We're only just getting started."

Sherlock lets out a long breath through his mouth, and John resumes his tracery, pressing into the soft spaces behind Sherlock's clavicles. He moves the blade back up to Sherlock's cheekbones, brushing under them down to the philtum, so pronounced and sensual. Sherlock opens his mouth to let John drag the blade down to his full lower lip. John pauses to tuck Sherlock's hair back from his forehead. The softness of his own hair brushing his skin is a soothing counterpoint to the point of the blade.

"Turn over," John says, and Sherlock does. He pushes against the headboard to slide himself further down the bed and rolls onto his stomach.

"Arms at your sides, legs spread."

This time the blade is more cruel. John leaves red lines over Sherlock's shoulders, streaking his arms. When John has finished striping Sherlock's back, thighs and calves with fine red pinstripes that are already beginning to fade, he begins again. This time the blade bites at the skin, catching and tearing the top layers in places. The red lines are millimeters wide, and don't fade.

This time Sherlock can't help but gasp as the blade grabs sensitive skin, the webbing between his fingers, the curve of back to neck, between his shoulder blades and along his lower back, dipping down to his coccyx between his buttocks. The blade is too dull to cut him and he knows that John will never leave him permanently scarred.

John nudges him and Sherlock obediently rolls onto his back, arms at his sides. John resumes his careful marking.

At last, when Sherlock can feel his body mapped in stinging latitude and longitude lines, John runs the blade up Sherlock's cock with only minimal pressure, a few lines along the shaft, a few more strokes on Sherlock's inner thighs, the fine stainless steel chain brushing across his balls. Sherlock comes with a cry, and even as his cock jerks, John is still stroking him with the blade, prolonging the orgasm into an angry stretch of tension that finally releases leaving Sherlock limp. In a few minutes it will feel complete, like a massage after a long run. Later John will soothe the scratches with soft hands, but right now there is still a sharp pin-prick of desire left, one more thing that needs to be done before he can relax.

John crawls fully onto the bed, knees tucked beneath him. He is still fully dressed but Sherlock can see the curve of John's erection stretching the front of his trousers. It must be painful by now.

John undoes his buttons and opens his fly. He pulls himself free, balls pushed up tight by the waistband of his pants that acts as a make-shift cock ring, making him harder.

"Come on, 'Lock."

'Lock, a long forgotten childhood diminutive, is only ever used here, usually at moments like this when Sherlock is desperate to take John's prick into his mouth. He wants to hear John cry out above his head. He wants to hear John _need_. It's a fine balancing act, between the submission of the position and the control of John's pleasure. It lets him return gradually to the world where he again makes decisions and _thinks_ beyond the next roll of pleasure at John's hands.

Necklace available at Good Vibrations. I doubt that John would buy something that expensive, but it's a good image.


	3. Bracelets

Like the tie that is still worn now and again in public, the bracelet is noticed by the Yard, by Mrs. Hudson, even by Angelo. It is obviously finely crafted, but it looks clunky on Sherlock's slender wrist.

No one knows that there is a companion bracelet on the nightstand in John's bedroom with a polished nickel lock sitting inside it. John has the key. Although the bracelet closes with an S clasp and Sherlock wears it that way in public, at home the two bracelets can be locked together with their jump rings to form close-fitting handcuffs. There is no space between them. Sherlock's hands are completely bound. The metal rings are flat on the inside to lie against the wrist, but the pattern is embossed onto his skin when they are finally removed after being worn for several hours.

John buys a few more locks with different shank lengths but with the same core to take just one key. He places a second key in a small box on his nightstand, just in case something happens and Sherlock needs to tell someone else where it is. The longer clasps let him be more creative, lock Sherlock's hands around things, like the legs of the table, like the newel post on the stair.

John considers buying a second, larger pair for Sherlock's slim ankles, but most often he wants Sherlock's legs spread wide. He wonders about the possibilities if he were to lock ankle to wrist, making it impossible for Sherlock to do anything but open his legs. He is tempted too, by the collar. He could bind Sherlock's hands at his throat with a long-shank lock.

A few more times and he does buy the anklets. They are _not_ worn in public.

On the bed John will sit with Sherlock's head on his inner thigh. Sherlock's hands and legs are bound together behind him, arcing his spine. He can only work with his mouth, lapping John's cock in, sucking, pulling, taking as deep as he can at the awkward angle. He swirls his tongue around the head and along the shaft.

They have a safe word. John insisted, laying out the NATO alphabet to choose from. They vetoed most as too likely to come up in everyday conversation, even Alfa or Alpha and Delta that are used in equations. Something about the way Sherlock lingered over Victor bothered John, but he didn't ask. They narrowed it down to Foxtrot, Tango or Zulu. Both agreed that Zulu would just make them laugh. Sherlock chose Tango.

"Why tango, not foxtrot?"

"I know how to foxtrot, but not how to tango."

"Oh." John flashed to a mental image of Sherlock in white tie and tails swirling across a ballroom floor and resolved to make it happen at some point, even though he couldn't dance himself. But the idea of Sherlock swirling, long legs flying in a tango was also appealing.

"What if there's a case in a dance school."

Sherlock frowns, "Possible, but unlikely. We can always change it later."

But like this, with Sherlock's body trussed, mouth full, John worries that Sherlock won't be able to signal, so he doesn't push in, or press on Sherlock's head, just runs his fingers through the soft curls. Occasionally he will tug on them, but not enough to pull Sherlock's lips from his cock.

And Sherlock works to take all that he can, mouth hot, tight and wet, until his nose is pressed into the crease of John's hip. It never takes long.

After he comes, John will stroke Sherlock's body with his hands, nails, the blade, soft touches, deep strokes while Sherlock can only writhe. When he's hard again he unlocks Sherlock's wrists and ankles and refastens the hands in front. Then he pulls Sherlock into his lap with his legs spread around John's thighs and rocks into him. Satiated he can take his time, giving Sherlock no respite; shallow thrusts just inside, deep ones where he pulls Sherlock down onto him hard and fast. Sherlock is soaked in sweat, whimpering at each stroke.

When Sherlock is actually shivering with each movement and John can feel his own orgasm building, he'll whisper "Now, 'Lock."

Sherlock clumsily grips his cock at the base with both of his hands, fastened as they are to each other. He usually comes with just one desperate tug, sobbing out as his come spills across the sheets. John grips him tightly around the waist as he too comes, crying out at the strength with which Sherlock clinches around him.


	4. Voice

People say that Sherlock has an amazing voice. Even people who hate him. Because it's hard not to have your head turned when that voice speaks to you. It's like he's found the exact resonance to reach inside your brain.

Or your heart.

Or your pants.

Depending on what he wants from you.

And he always wants something from you.

John Watson has a pleasant voice. Even toned, a little high, but within a normal masculine range. It has none of the base notes, the fine timbre of Sherlock's. It is not public school, but it's not common either. It's good and English.

It can be commanding and it can be cold, but unless he's really trying it's just open and casual. Sherlock can slip from voice to voice seemingly without effort. He can charm, seduce and break your heart in one speech.

You can pick out Sherlock's voice in a crowd, but not John's.

But Sherlock can always hear John's voice. He feels it in his bones, in his muscles. And when John speaks just so, Sherlock's body responds automatically.

His knees want to bend and his neck to droop and his eyes to close. All his blood seems to flow to his groin, leaving his limbs cold, his brain floating. He can barely breathe.

It doesn't matter where he is or what he's doing. And John doesn't abuse it. That makes it all the more powerful when John does use it.

Because it fills Sherlock with longing and need and submission and _nothing_ all at once.

John's voice strips Sherlock bare.


	5. Adorned

When John comes home, Sherlock is naked, kneeling on a sheet between their two chairs. His hands are locked together with a short shank lock and rest in his lap. Spread out on a towel in front of him are their things: the tie, the necklace with the blade, the necklace that matches the bracelets, the anklets, a bottle of lube and a few condoms.

This is new. It's supposed to be John who sets the scene, who chooses the moment, but John knows that his actions are always prompted by signs from Sherlock: the tension, the frustration that sets into Sherlock's body. He thinks back over the past few days and nothing comes to mind that signaled this, but it's clear that Sherlock needs it.

He strides across the room. "How long have you been kneeling?"

"I don't know. A few hours?"

John grabs Sherlock's hair at the back where it's longest and pulls sharply to expose the neck. "You don't get to choose. You know that. I should punish you by walking away."

"John…" Sherlock pleads. It's low and desperate and John knows it's outside the game.

"But since you've been so good and waited so patiently, I guess I will give in, just this one time."

He leans in and bites at the curve where Sherlock's neck meets his shoulder, and Sherlock moans into a scream.

My God, John thinks. How wound up is he?

"What should I do, 'Lock? How should I fuck your pretty arse today, hmm? And what should I use to bind you, since you've been so clever as to put them out for me to choose?"

John selects the tie. He crouches in front of Sherlock and snaps the cloth so that his lover can see it before he loops it around Sherlock's neck and tightens the clasp. Then he twists it around so that the tails hang down Sherlock's back. Sherlock starts to bend over onto all fours, but John stops him.

He lifts Sherlock's hands in his. He looks down at those long white fingers. Despite how much Sherlock needs this sometimes, how it unwinds him, releases him from some demon that he can't define; and despite how much John enjoys it, how his body begins to prepare when he sees Sherlock start to pull away too much into his head; how his mind starts to plan the next level of restraint, or think of how old tricks can be played and combined in new ways, there is always a moment when he thinks about the other times. The times when the need is not this, when it's soft, loving, and tender. He thinks about when they whisper each others' names in the dark and sigh into one another's skin.

But that's not what Sherlock needs right now.

John sits in the leather chair and undoes his fly. "Look, Sherlock. I'm not even hard. You'd better fix that if you want this to go any further."

Eyes squeezed shut, Sherlock noses forward blindly to caress John's cock with his tongue through the briefs. When he's too eager, John yanks him back with the tie. After Sherlock has soaked the front of John's underwear, John pushes them down so that Sherlock can get to the now swollen head. "'Lock," he whispers as Sherlock clumsily tries to pull them all the way down, hands still locked together.

"Enough!" he barks.

Sherlock obediently sits back on his haunches, hands in his lap but not touching his own hard cock.

John stands, strips quickly and efficiently and drops his clothes over the chair. He walks around Sherlock one way and then the other, considering. It's been a long day and John wasn't prepared, so he's working on the fly. The fact that he hasn't been thinking about it, about the guttural sounds that Sherlock makes when they do this—beyond speech, beyond reason it seems—about the way Sherlock's body is completely his to do almost anything, means that he's not at quite the fever pitch that he might otherwise be.

He crouches, picks up the chain with the black blade and again shows it to Sherlock before moving around to mark Sherlock's back. Each line he draws hard with the blade he then soothes with the cool pad of his thumb. Sherlock arches into the blade and shivers at John's gentle touch.

John sits back for a moment and stops touching Sherlock altogether. Sherlock whimpers, so John pulls his head back and murmurs into his ear. "Don't make a sound, or I will lock you to the chair and leave you here while I go down to the pub. It's quiz night."

From behind he runs his fingers along Sherlock's cheekbones, and traces Sherlock's lips over and over with his nail until they're red. He can see Sherlock's entire body tense, concentrating on not making noise, although he can see that his cock is dark red, balls drawn up tight between his legs.

"I suppose you want me to fuck you now, don't you. You want it so badly, you greedy thing."

Sherlock's not sure if he's allowed to nod, so he does nothing, but John can feel the pliancy of relief across his shoulders.

He sits back again, removing his touch. "No. One more thing. Let's not make this too easy. You've been very willful."

He unlocks the cuffs, selects a longer shank and binds Sherlock to the metal bars of the leather chair and forces him unsteadily up onto his knees. It means that Sherlock will have to brace himself with his thighs as he can't use his arms to support himself, and John plans to use the tie to keep him from resting his head. He's not quite sure if it will work, but he wraps the heavy, chain-link necklace around Sherlock's neck, one of the anklets around the chair and binds them together. Sherlock can no longer move his head very far in any direction.

Finally he selects the lube and he can feel Sherlock's body start to relax but instead of taking a condom, John spends ten minutes working Sherlock with his fingers, fucking Sherlock with them, twisting and pressing. Sherlock's biting his lip. His eyes are squeezed shut and he looks like he might cry.

The tightness is starting to make John's fingers numb and he's aching himself, so he takes a condom, slips it on and pushes into Sherlock's waiting body.

There is an exhalation that is quickly cut off and John takes pity. "Alright, my love, my 'Lock. You can make noise now. Let me hear you cry out."

Gripping Sherlock's hip with one hand to steady himself, John pulls on the necktie to pull Sherlock's head up from where he'd let it drop. The chain bites into the back of his neck and the tie pulls on his throat.

"Do I make you feel good, 'Lock? Do I?"

"Ye…esss," Sherlock stutters, gasping against the tightness around his neck.

"What do you want?"

"To come, please."

"How?"

"To come from you fucking me."

John thrusts in hard on the last two words and Sherlock sobs. Words are gone and John will get nothing but animalistic noises from him now.

Tomorrow, or maybe even later tonight there will be time for slowness, for kisses and caresses and gentle builds, but now John fucks viciously, slamming into Sherlock's body as the other man struggles to keep himself from falling. The only way that they're staying balanced is by pushing against one another.

Taken like this, Sherlock sometimes makes high-pitched keens that are completely unlike his usual voice and the sound shoots through John's body like an electric shock. It's almost painful. He can feel Sherlock clenching, straining towards his orgasm, but trying to hold back until he's allowed. He doesn't even need to have his cock touched to come tonight.

"Yes," John moans, giving the permission that Sherlock needs.

Sherlock starts to shudder, hips bucking as he comes across the sheet beneath them. He jerks forward so hard that he pulls himself off John's cock.

John grabs himself and gives several frantic strokes so that he can spill onto the still red lines across Sherlock's back.

It's only when John has fallen heavily to the ground beside Sherlock's trembling body that he realizes that Sherlock's still tangled up with his restraints.

His muscles feel like rubber, but he manages to find the key and unlock Sherlock, and even rub his red wrists before he pulls them both back down onto the sheet to recover.


	6. Unadorned

"Sherlock," John says. He doesn't realize quite how he's said it, as one might say it to a child throwing a tantrum, at once placating, soothing even, but brokering no further disobedience.

Sherlock's eyes widen and John thinks, that's it then, I've gone too far.

But then Sherlock steps close, into John's personal space that always seems to expand enough to include Sherlock and no one else.

"Make me," he says. "You have to make me."

There is something wild in Sherlock's eyes, and John still isn't sure if he's reading it right, if Sherlock is going to turn on him, just like a child, but there's something pleading there too, something that John's never seen.

"I need you to," Sherlock whispers. Because John's voice, a voice that Sherlock can imagine ordering patients to stop thrashing on the table, or ordering soldiers into danger, has sent a flush of heat along his body to deep between his legs, and that's never happened before.

It makes him stop thinking, stop seeing the pieces flashing in neon all around him. He doesn't like it, but he wants it. And that's new and interesting too. He has to resist the urge to lower his head. He wants John's hand to push him down to his knees.

"Stop," John says forcefully, "you will stop."

And Sherlock does.

In the cab they sit side by side facing forward. They are as far apart as usual, which is to say, not much.

Inside 221b, up the stairs quietly, into their flat.

They stare at one another. Eyes locking, and again that's nothing new, but something else is there. It's laid bare, stripped of justifications and the pretense of 'no, just flatmates, not like that, just good friends, very good friends.'

John suspects that Sherlock was as unaware of this as he, himself, was, and that makes him feel triumphant. But he's also shocked at his own desire, or rather, _what_ he desires.

"I want you to—" John starts, then begins again, "Strip. Strip for me now."

Sherlock shuts his eyes as if he has to think about what the words mean. He lets his coat slide from his shoulders and drop in a thick heap on the floor. John's commands are pulling something away from him. Control. He's losing control, and it's terrifying and blissful at the same time, like free falling while knowing that someone will catch you.

"Open your eyes. I want—," again, the rephrasing, the parsing of what's needed. "Look at me. You have to look at me," John says.

Eyes still shut, Sherlock swallows.

Neither one of them is sure of the parameters. How much will be too much.

Isn't one supposed to have a safe word for this, John thinks?

Sherlock opens his eyes. He slithers out of his jacket and starts to unbutton his shirt, the white one with the lavender pin stripes. He feels faint, just on the edge of being nauseas. For the first time in a long time he has no idea what he's doing. Is this what normal people feel like all the time?

John licks his lips as inches of pale skin are revealed. His mouth is very dry. Sherlock undoes his cuffs, tugs the shirttails from his waistband and drops the shirt off of his shoulders. His eyes don't leave John's as he rests his hand against the wall to brace himself as he pulls off his shoes and socks. His toes wiggle against the carpet, feeling the air.

He drops his eyes briefly to undo the complicated buttons of his trousers, but his eyes return to John's as he lets them drop, revealing his tumescent cock. He steps free of his trousers and kicks them behind him.

Through all of this John hasn't moved. He's still in his coat. He takes his wallet from his pocket and pulls out a condom. Sherlock's eyes widen slightly, but he doesn't say stop.

"Get on the kitchen table." John's a bit surprised at himself. The couch is right there, although it would be a tight fit, and Sherlock's room is just down the hall, but the thought of standing up while he fucks Sherlock this first (of many?) time seems important. Unlike the bed, it will put Sherlock's arse at the perfect height.

Sherlock does as he's told, turning and walking into the kitchen. He's cold, but it isn't reducing his arousal. The discomfort heightens it, as though physical comfort is something else to let go along with control and responsibility. He's tried it the other way. Ordering a partner, punishing them, but it was never satisfying for either of them. He was dreadful at after care, and he might as well have been ordering the police around for all that it turned him on.

But this is different. He never thought that this would work, and maybe it wouldn't have if it were someone other than John. Because he's always deferred to John. John has always reined him in. And he's always liked it.

John finally takes off his coat and hangs it on his hook. There's still time to walk away from this, he thinks. There's even time to change the dynamic, to take Sherlock into his arms and kiss him gently, to build up to something because hard and fast isn't like John at all.

He doesn't strip. He walks into the kitchen unbuttoning his shirt. Sherlock's moved the detritus out of the way and is leaning against the table awkwardly. When John comes in he turns and bends over the table. The height forces him to bend his legs slightly and he spreads them wide, presenting himself.

John walks over and runs his finger along Sherlock's spine, causing Sherlock to shiver.

"No," John says, "turn over. On your back."

Sherlock stands, turns and lays back down on his back staring at the ceiling, looking like a patient waiting for an exam, except for his swollen cock lying across his stomach.

There's lube in John's bedroom. There may even be some down the hall in Sherlock's but John doesn't dare leave Sherlock alone to reconsider. He doesn't want to reconsider. He grabs a bottle of olive oil from the counter and sets it on the table by Sherlock's hip along with the condom packet.

"Have you done this before?" John asks. "I need to know if you've done this before."

"Tell me now," he adds softly. "Tell me if you want it."

"I want it," Sherlock whispers, his voice breathy and low. "Never like this. With men, yes, anal, but…I've never had sex like this, but I want it."

John nods and unscrews the cap of the olive oil. He slicks his fingers and slides them along Sherlock's perineum and then between his buttocks to prepare him.

Sherlock's head drops back. He brings his knees up to his chest. When John takes his fingers away to push his trousers down and put on the condom, Sherlock wriggles down so that his arse is right at the edge of the table and grips his knees, legs spread wide.

It takes a little effort for John to push in, and Sherlock's face creases.

"If you say stop, I will stop. I don't want…I won't hurt you."

"I know," Sherlock breathes out. "I'm not going to say stop."

John knows that Sherlock will do nothing without his permission. He's heady from the feeling and he wants to drag it out, wants to have Sherlock practically begging, but he's not going to last long himself. He wasn't hard in the cab, but he is now.

Sherlock's thighs are slim, but strong with taut muscles, and his arse is round and soft when John pushes against it. John pulls Sherlock's hands from where they're still holding his knees and brings them down to his sides where he can grip them. He pushes Sherlock's thighs up with his upper arms and thrusts. He passes beyond coherent thought, it's all just tight, tight, hot, Sherlock's body drawing him in.

Sherlock's equally past all words. He moans on every thrust and gasps on each withdraw. His fingers are scrabbling at the table where he's pinned.

John releases Sherlock's right hand and manages, "Come. Make yourself come. Want to see it."

Fumbling between his drawn up thighs Sherlock grips himself tightly. He catches his own pre-come from the tip with his thumb and works it over the head, along the shaft.

When he comes, he cries out at each pulse, three, four times across his abdomen and chest.

John bites his lip as Sherlock's contractions grab him and he comes with a strangled moan. His last hard thrust earns another sob from Sherlock and another thin jet of come.

They stay locked together for several long heartbeats. Then John backs away and catches his trousers where they're falling.

Sherlock pushes himself upright and looks down at the mess on his chest. "I'll just…go clean up."

He gets up awkwardly, limbs readjusting to blood flow, and walks to the bathroom

John cleans himself up in the sink and wipes down the table. Waits.

Sherlock reemerges with a towel around his waist. "John…goodnight."

He turns and walks to his bedroom shutting the door behind him, leaving John to wonder what comes next.

The next morning Sherlock's door is still shut, so John goes to work, confused, worried and hurt.

When he comes home, Sherlock is in his pajamas in his chair. He stands when John enters.

"John, I…" Sherlock's hands flutter the way they do when he's upset. "…last night…I…"

There's a long, taut silence.

"You don't have to, but if you…want to…it was…good," he stammers. He's had all day to think of how to phrase this, and this is the best he can come up with? He feels his face flush with embarrassment and shame. Humiliation, and that's tied in with what happened the night before as well.

John strides across the room and catches Sherlock's hands in his but loosely, not like the night before.

"We didn't even kiss," John murmurs. "We should rectify that. If we're going forward. Are we going forward?"

Sherlock shuts his eyes, lips parted, and John leans in, open mouthed too, to catch Sherlock's lips with his.

He slides his hands around Sherlock's waist working them under the cloth to touch warm skin. He moves a hand to grip Sherlock's arse. John didn't really get to feel it well the night before and he delights in its round shape, the firm muscle beneath the skin that still gives pleasantly as he massages it.

Sherlock slips his left leg between John's to show how hard he is.

"Bedroom," Sherlock whispers although he's not sure why. "I have…things." He doesn't say that he spent an hour digging through the accumulated flotsam of his room to find a pack of condoms hoping all the while that they weren't past their sell-buy date.

"Yes," says John in a low voice, but not a whisper. He doesn't say that he spent the day so anxious that he thought he was going to have to come home sick, only it was the thought of coming home that was making him sick. That he pulled his phone out at least forty-five times to see if Sherlock had texted and to wonder if he should text first.

Separately they walk down the short hall to Sherlock's bedroom. It's chaotic, but not as much as John feared.

On a tall stack of books next to the bed there's an unopened, crumpled box of condoms and a half empty bottle of lubricant. John suspects it might be his, but Sherlock seems so far out of his depth that he's about to drown and John doesn't want to add to his agitation, so he refrains from mentioning it.

John undoes his own shirt then moves to Sherlock and starts to lift the hem of his t-shirt. Sherlock complies by lifting his arms and together they wrangle it off of him. John wraps his arms around Sherlock's body again and pulls them together, skin to skin. There's such a tender intimacy, despite their both being half dressed that it pulls a shuddering sob from deep in Sherlock's chest. They kiss again, tilting their heads from one side to the other to find the best angle to fit together.

When their tongues start to become urgent, John steps back and they each remove their own trousers. Sherlock's barefoot, but John has to pull off his shoes and socks.

Naked, they crawl onto the bed side-by-side and resume the kissing. Sherlock's hands skitter along John's ribs, around to his back and down to caress his arse. He throws his leg over John's hip so that they're grinding together. His pubic hair tickles John's belly but when John reaches between them to move things along, he pulls back. He gives John the same analyzing look that he gave him the first time they met and John wonders what he's seeing this time. Sherlock reaches out and starts to trace the ligaments and muscles of John's body in tactile observation. He touches the scar and rubs it with his thumb. He brushes his hand down John's sternum and curves over the gentle swell of flesh around John's waist. He presses his palm against John's abdomen, below the belly button, but above the genitals. John waits, fascinated by Sherlock's fascination. Finally, seemingly satisfied, Sherlock pushes John onto his back climbs over him to straddle his hips.

It's nothing like the night before. Sherlock's pliant, yes, but neither of them is controlling the other. John slips his hands around Sherlock's waist and Sherlock moves them where he wants them to be, lower, onto his hips. When he wants it, he moves John's hand up to his nipple and shows him how he likes it, rubbed between the fingers. He slides his fingers into John's mouth and thrusts them in and out as he lifts himself up and down on John's cock.

He moans a litany, "Johnjohnjohnjohnjohn," stroking himself faster and faster until he comes with a spiked groan of pleasure. John's so wrapped up in watching that his own orgasm seems like an afterthought, pulled from him by Sherlock's ecstasy.

Sherlock rolls off and gazes up at the ceiling. John fumbles for a towel and finding none, ends up fetching Sherlock's t-shirt from where he dropped it. From Sherlock's silence he's afraid that it's going to be a repeat of the night before. That all of this is going to prove too much for Sherlock's fragile image of himself, but when he passes the t-shirt over, Sherlock turns his head and smiles at him.

So John crawls in bedside him and throws his arm over the other man's chest.

"Last night… Why did you run— go away?"

Sherlock looks back at the ceiling and gathers up his breath. "I thought... I thought that that's what I needed. To be alone to try and sort out what had happened, why I enjoyed it, why I…needed it. I was wrong."

"What do you mean?" John asks, worried that it still might be too much. Does Sherlock mean that all of this is wrong?

"I needed this. You. Something…softer, tender. Loving." The last word is said so softly that John can barely hear it.

John says, "I don't know what came over me. We don't have to do that…it that way again."

At that Sherlock turns his head sharply in John's direction. "No! I mean, I think…I think that I will want it that way sometimes. It was…clarifying.

"Clarifying?" John chuckles.

"Everything else was gone, just your voice and your body and what you were doing to my body. It…reset things. Because…I trust you. I trust you, John." Sherlock almost doesn't trust himself as he says the words. He suddenly casts his eyes to the side and they widen with a thought, "I mean, if you want to…do that. Sometimes."

John smiles and reaches out to take Sherlock's hand in his. He weaves their fingers together but then grips tightly. "I think I will. Sometimes. I think maybe we both need it. But there will always be this after."

"Yes," Sherlock sighs, "Yes."


End file.
